The Other Holmes
by Friar Tuck
Summary: Gwyn is a Holmes, but she is not really a Holmes. That's convenient, because she's probably the only woman who could manage Sherlock, although "manage" is a loose term. (Spoilers and theories about Series 3, darker in later chapters.)
1. Not a Holmes

**Author's Note: **Gwyn Holmes is an OC I've created for the BBC Sherlock universe. I don't own anything. I typically write in first-person, present tense, but the first chapter is a past event, so this will be the exception. Reviews are greatly appreciated!

* * *

I was fifteen when our father died. Our mother passed away three years later. During the in between, after he was gone but before she left, we acted as though nothing had changed. We pretended there wasn't a great chasm ripped through the fragile cloth holding us together. We continued with the Christmas dinners and all the expected family gatherings. We got along, for the most part. My brothers have never seen eye to eye, but they played nice for Mummy.

Our mother's death was a very formal affair. It came at the end of a long illness, and in true fashion, she had all the funerary arrangements detailed out for us so there was no way we could mess up. All the right people came, and everyone who didn't sent flowers. Mycroft said a few words because he was the eldest, the new head of the family. It was strange seeing him in the role for the first time. The responsibility of it came very naturally to him. He looked strikingly like our father, although that might have been intentional; he was wearing one of Dad's old ties. I remember wondering if he was consciously trying to draw the comparison, or if he simply thought it would be nice to wear it. However, that would be sentiment, and sentiment has never been Mycroft's forte.

The three of us formed an awkward receiving line to farewell the guests. It required us to be sociable when being sociable was the last thing any of us wanted. Of course Mycroft was the best at behaving appropriately, because he's always been the best at that sort of thing. Sherlock was polite enough, accepting the condolences mostly in silence. I stood there in a daze. I was the youngest; I felt the most adrift. Mummy's death brought the most changes for me. I didn't cry, though.

I was newly at university, just a few weeks into my first term. I was still living at home, at the Manor, only a few miles outside London. It wasn't a terrible commute to campus, and theoretically it was only temporary. The original plan had been for me to find a flatmate soon after starting at university. At first I planned to share a flat with my then-boyfriend Preston, but after an unpleasant run-in with Sherlock—which I would later recognize as the early stages of jealousy—that wasn't a viable option, as he was no longer my boyfriend.

The plan quickly became for me to live with Mycroft. We briefly discussed me remaining at the Manor, but neither Mycroft nor Sherlock liked the idea of me being out there on my own. The possibility of living with Sherlock was never broached; I don't think Mycroft could in good conscience suggest it, because he wouldn't wish that fate on anyone. I didn't mind moving in with Mycroft, but there was still something uncomfortable about it. Here came his baby sister, barging into his private life. Of course he insisted he didn't see it that way, not that we ever really discussed it in so many words. It was agreed that I would stay with him until some point during or soon after I completed university, and that was that.

And so, soon after our mother's funeral, Mycroft arranged for one of his government cars to drive Sherlock and I out to the Manor to collect some of my things. We had already purchased new furniture for my room in Mycroft's home; obviously, we still had the Manor, so there was no point in emptying my room completely. Mycroft had originally meant to come instead of Sherlock, but he had pressing matters to attend to, as usual. I texted Sherlock on a whim asking if he wouldn't mind helping and, to my great surprise, he accepted. Maybe it was a sense of family duty that persuaded him, or maybe he just felt like being nice. He can do that sometimes, be nice.

Most of the packing was done in silence. Clothes, books, photographs were put into boxes. Packaging away the culmination of eighteen years on this earth brought forth all sorts of memories. One common thread ran through them, and suddenly, for the first time, I wanted to talk about it.

I said, as casually as I could manage, "I'm adopted."

"I know."

"How?" I asked before I could stop myself.

Sherlock sighed as if the idea of explaining his deductions was tiresome, although of course he takes great pleasure in doing so, because he thinks it's so terribly impressive. "You were seven," he said. "I came home and noticed you had borrowed a book of mine on genetics—you returned it to the wrong shelf. It had most recently been opened to the section on dominant and recessive traits. There is any number of traits that you possess that Mycroft and I do not, and vice versa. You have straight hair, we have curly, or at least Mycroft did before he started losing it. I have dimples on both cheeks, he has one on his left, and you have none. You have a widow's peak, we don't." He waved his hand as if to say he could go on.

"You have to admit, I was smart to figure it out so young."

"You _are _smart," he corrected me. "Not as smart as Mycroft or myself, but given the lack of Holmes genes, you've done rather well."

"Well, thank you," I mumbled.

"Why didn't you ever say anything?"

"No one ever told me, so I knew I wasn't supposed to know," I said, shrugging my shoulders. "I could see how much Mummy loved having a daughter. It was clear that I was wanted. That helped at first." After a moment, I added, "You could have told me you knew I knew, you know."

"That wouldn't have been interesting."

I nodded. That sounded like Sherlock. "Does Mycroft know, then?"

"Yes, but that's different," he replied dismissively. "He sees you as family."

"And you don't?"

"Do you see me as a brother?"

I didn't answer immediately. I wanted to say yes, of course, but something stopped me. I thought about it. Mycroft was starting at university when I joined the family, so he wasn't always around, but I saw him as my brother because he acted like my brother. Even as a child, though, things were different with Sherlock. He kept a certain distance. I used to think he resented no longer being the baby, but in recent years my thoughts had changed. We were closer now.

Finally, I said, "I care about you, but I don't know if I could say that my feelings for you are only familial."

I felt awkward. I felt inarticulate. I wasn't even sure what I was saying or implying. If anyone asked me, I would say Sherlock was my brother. I'm a Holmes. But I didn't see him as a brother, not really.

"I agree," he said after a brief pause.

And that was that. He got up and grabbed a box and was out the door.


	2. Of Cake and Men

It takes four rings, but Mrs. Hudson finally comes to the door and lets me inside. "Oh, good morning, Gwyn!" I love how happy she always is to see me.

"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson. How are you?"

"I'm well, dear, thank you. Sherlock isn't in, you know."

"He knows I'm coming," I say, but it's a lie. Regardless, he'll know soon enough. When exactly that happens is of little consequence.

The door to his flat is unlocked as usual, so I let myself in. I unload the groceries onto the counter once I've cleared some space. There's something bubbling in a vial that I decide not to disturb, but most of the papers get moved over to the table. I preheat the oven and set about measuring the ingredients.

I've just placed the pan of batter in the oven when Sherlock walks in, closely followed by a man who I assume is John Watson. Mycroft's told me about him. He's a recently returned veteran from Afghanistan, which makes sense. He has to be tough enough to be hanging around Sherlock. I'm curious about him.

Sherlock throws his scarf on one of the armchairs in the adjoining room. Without even acknowledging that he's seen me—although maybe he hasn't, maybe it's the smell of my shampoo or something else that tells him it's me—he says, "John, this is my sister Gwyn. Gwyn, meet John."

Poor John looks terribly confused until he spots me. "Oh," he says. He looks between the two of us with a furrowed brow for a moment before deciding to turn to me instead. "Hello. I didn't know Sherlock had a sister. Gwen, is it?"

"Gwyn, as in _win_," I say. I look at Sherlock. "You really never mentioned me?"

"Baking a cake, I see," Sherlock muses. He smiles. "Nice."

"How did you know what she was—" John stops himself, closing his eyes. It takes a while to get used to Sherlock and his deductions, and John still seems to be acclimating. After a second, he opens his eyes and instead asks, "I don't mean to be rude, but why are you using our kitchen?"

"It's a surprise for Mycroft."

"Oh," John says. His brow furrows again. "Isn't he on a diet?"

"Well, yes, but willpower around food isn't one of his strong suits."

While John thinks on that, I ask Sherlock again, "Did you really not tell him that you had a sister?"

He shrugs. "It never came up."

"John has a sister. You could've bonded over it."

Sherlock gives me a look, because of course it's ridiculous for me to suggest he _bond_ with anyone, and John asks, "Hang on, how did you know I have a sister?"

"Mycroft. He's got a file on you."

John opens his mouth, and then closes it. "I honestly don't know what I expected," he says.

"Have you really never dated someone for more than six months?"

"Have you ever dated anyone, period? How old are you, anyway?"

I meet Sherlock's gaze and smile. I like John's sass. "My dating history is irrelevant," I say, "and I'm twenty."

"Oh, don't sell yourself short," Sherlock says, teasing. "You did date that one boy for quite some time—how long was that, a year and a half, two years?"

"Yes, one boy, as in _only_," I say, "because anyone I ever tried to go out with had to meet your and Mycroft's standards. I managed to hide him for a while."

"But he couldn't hide forever."

I sigh dramatically. "All Mummy ever wanted was grandchildren. Alas, no, due to the interference of my brothers, that'll never happen."

"Not interference, _intercession_. It sounds better."

"Semantics."

John looks dumbfounded. "Is something the matter?" I ask.

"This is just...a very pleasant interaction for Sherlock."

"Well, family is family," Sherlock says, walking up and putting his arm around me with a smile. He gives me a squeeze before letting go and collecting a few papers from the counter next to me before sitting in his armchair.

"And what's Mycroft?"

"Oh, he doesn't count."

At this point Sherlock is just being silly. This is the closest he gets to humor. Meanwhile, John just looks confused. I would be, too. Sherlock doesn't really come across as the type to joke around and have friends. John is still getting to know him, and although the two of them seem friendly enough, I seriously doubt Sherlock has been anything but his regular deductive self with everyone else. John isn't used to seeing him so playful. He doesn't know what to make of it.

Soon the cake is done, and once it's cooled and frosted, I wrap it up to take back to Pall Mall. "It was nice to meet you, John," I say, offering my hand.

He shakes it, smiling. "Yes, it was interesting."

I get a taxicab back home, and I've just set the cake up prettily on the kitchen counter when I hear Mycroft come in. I know he'll bring the mail into the kitchen as he normally does, and when he walks into the room, he glances up to smile at me before continuing sifting through the mail. "Nice day?" he asks.

"Very," I say. I wait. He'll notice the cake soon enough.

He smells it before he sees it. When his gaze falls upon it, he raises an eyebrow. Setting the mail down on the counter, he says, "Is this chocolate?"

"Double chocolate, yeah. Do you want some?"

He considers the cake. I can see the battle in his eyes. For a moment I think he might resist, but the temptation is too strong. He nods. I cut him a piece, and he takes it, and smiles again. "I'll be in my office," he says, and leaves.


	3. Dinner

At the end of my Greco-Roman Art class, Robert asks me out on a date. We've spoken before in and out of class, but we've never really had an actual conversation, so I'm more than a little taken aback. I say yes before I've had a chance to fully consider it, and we exchange numbers and go our separate ways.

There's nothing wrong with Robert in particular that makes me not want to go through with the date; I'm just not particularly interested in dating anyone at the moment. I don't like dating. It's drawn out and awkward. You have to go through all the motions and pointless pleasantries, and then odds are, it doesn't work out. The only reason I don't cancel on Robert is that I don't want to be rude.

And so the agreed-upon night comes, and I go through the arduous process of making myself look nice. Mycroft is strangely pleased, maybe because the chance has arisen yet again to critique my choice in men, or maybe because he genuinely wants me to live a normal life. I doubt he or Sherlock will ever marry, so in a way I'm the only chance the Holmes line has of continuing. The bloodline will technically end with them, but for all intents and purposes, I will single-handedly carry on our family. It's a lot of pressure, when you think about it.

"Do I get to meet him?" Mycroft asks somewhat mockingly as I walk past him on my way to answer the door. I shoot him a glare before opening it.

Robert smiles when he sees me. "You look lovely," he says.

I force a smile. All I can think of is how _predictable_ that was, complimenting me. What else is he going to say? It's just one of the many pleasantries that I hate about dating. Whether I actually look nice or not is irrelevant. He's going to say it anyway, because—and I don't mean to be crass—he wants to get me in bed.

"Thank you," I say, and together we hop in the taxicab he just got out of.

We go to a nice Mediterranean place, which I find slightly amusing seeing that we're both studying the Classics. You can't get more Mediterranean than Greece or Rome. We get a table, and he helps me into my seat, and too soon it's time for small talk. I hate making unnecessary conversation; I just don't have the patience for it. Growing up with Mycroft and Sherlock, you only speak if you have something to say. Normal people aren't like that, though. They need to fill the silence.

While we're in the middle of discussing his family life, my phone buzzes. I sneak a peek as discreetly as I can. _Dinner? SH_

_Eating, sorry. G_

I look up, and Robert has stopped talking. "Got a text?" he asks.

He's offended. I smile apologetically. "My brother," I say, and then delve back into my mind to try and remember what he had said about his siblings so I could get him talking about. "You said your brother's got three kids?"

He nods, and then he's off again, not needing any further encouragement.

My phone buzzes again. _So eat again. SH_

_I'm with someone. G_

His response is almost immediate. _A date? SH_

I notice Robert's stopped talking again. I put my phone facedown on the table. "I'm really sorry, I'm done, I promise," I say. "Please continue."

Grudgingly, he starts talking, now about a secondary school he's been in talks with to teach Latin—somewhere during my texting, the topics must have changed. Our food comes, and that offers some blessed silence. The atmosphere has shifted; he knows I'm not interested, but in true dating fashion, he's determined to stick it out to the end. This isn't going well. Why can't I just leave?

"Gwyn, there you are!" I hear someone shout.

It's Sherlock. He rushes up to our table, completely ignoring Robert when he says, "Mycroft is in the hospital, it's his heart."

He's too animated, so Mycroft is clearly still at home and in perfect health. However, I go along with it, because Sherlock is giving me the perfect excuse to leave. I do my best to look flustered, even managing to tear up a little. "Oh—Robert, I'm sorry, I—I've got to go," I say, and follow Sherlock out.

Once we're outside, Sherlock spins on his heel to face me. "You look nice," he says, which surprises me, because Sherlock isn't one for complimenting people on how they look. I smile, flattered, and he smiles back. "Dinner?"

My smile deepens."Might as well," I say.

* * *

I almost miss Sherlock asking me out. It's a week later. I spend the evening at 221B watching reality television with him and John. I'm not usually one for shows like that, but I love that Sherlock loves them, and it's rather funny watching how bent out of shape he gets over all the silly things people are doing. When it's finally time to go, Sherlock walks me outside. He never does that.

I hail a taxicab, but before I can open the door Sherlock says, "Gwyn, would you like to have dinner sometime?"

"We have dinner," I say. I'm confused. It's strange of him to ask about one dinner in particular; we go to dinner on a semi-regular basis. I don't understand why this time is different.

"Would you like to go to dinner with me?" he says, rephrasing.

"Like—a date?" I say stupidly before I can stop myself.

He smirks slightly. I imagine this is very entertaining for him, seeing how I'll respond. "Are you surprised because I'm your brother and therefore shouldn't be asking you this, or were you simply not expecting me to ask?" he says.

"You're not my brother." Again, the words leave my mouth before I have the chance to think through them properly. I see Sherlock's lips twitch upwards, almost into a smile. Not really knowing what else to say, I ask, "When?"

"Sometime." And with that, he leaves me to my taxicab.


	4. At the Manor

**Author's Note: Thanks so much for the positive feedback so far! Reviews are greatly appreciated!**

* * *

After that night, Sherlock goes through a series of cases, and I don't see him for almost three months. I hardly even hear from him, although he does send me one text during this time. It's out of the ordinary for him, and simply says, _Hoping you are well. SH._ It's nice to know he's thinking of me, at least.

Meanwhile, life goes on as it always has at Pall Mall. The second term of the year draws to a close, and I'm enjoying the Greco-Roman world much as I always do. I'm holding out hope that Robert won't be in any of my classes in Term 3, because it's been terribly awkward since we had dinner—or tried to have dinner, at least. The next time he saw me, he asked about Mycroft. I said he was fine, thank you, but he didn't seem convinced. I imagine he thinks I was texting Sherlock begging him to come rescue me. Sherlock came up with the rescuing all on his own.

I sit at the piano and begin playing one of my favorite pieces by Debussy. Playing always has a way of clearing my head and ordering my thoughts. So I begin to think. Part of me wonders if Sherlock has changed his mind about dinner and has resolved to never mention it again, because avoidance is certainly something he might do. Or maybe he's simply forgotten; however, that would mean the knowledge of going to dinner with me wasn't important enough to keep in his silly mind palace, which probably doesn't bode well for our relationship prospects. Or perhaps he let himself forget because he knew I wouldn't, so I would remind him eventually.

I hear the door open, and I turn my focus to the black and white keys my fingers are dancing over, because while I don't believe mind-reading is a real thing, I do think Mycroft may be the exception.

He walks in the room and gives me one of his big-brother smiles—proud, and somewhat indulgent. "You haven't played in a while," he observes.

"That's what a full course load does to you."

He chuckles and nods, allowing that.

I ask, "Any new wars I should be aware of?"

"No, today was a slow day. Rather boring, really."

"Pity," I say dryly. "I always like a good assassination."

"I'm very sorry to disappoint."

I stop playing and turn to him, gesturing back in the direction of the kitchen. "I baked cookies today," I say. "Macadamia nut."

Mycroft sighs, and his eyes drift longingly toward the door to the kitchen. It almost looks like he might decline. Just when I think he's going to say something about his diet, I interject, "Oh, go on, what's one cookie going to hurt?"

He frowns, and then shrugs, and then heads off to the kitchen. As he leaves the room, my phone buzzes. _Tomorrow at 7. SH_

I wonder if it's a typo that he put a question mark instead of a period, or if he simply assumes I'll ignore any plans I might have to go to dinner with him. As it so happens, I have no plans, which he probably figured. I smile. _See you then. G_

* * *

"Where are we going?"

"To dinner."

"Yes, but where for dinner?"

He doesn't answer. Instead, he looks out the window. All right, then, I think. We lapse into silence. The city lights twinkle, illuminating the night. Our taxicab passes shops, office buildings, and so many restaurants, but we never slow down.

Gradually the city begins to spread out and the buildings come more slowly. Soon the city is almost gone, and all the lights along with it. By now, I've formed my theory. When we turn onto a familiar road, I know for sure. It's a nice choice, and I say so. Sherlock nods. "I thought you'd like it. Plenty of privacy."

The taxicab leaves us at the front of Holmes Manor. I don't have my key, because obviously I didn't know we were coming, so I let Sherlock open the door. He holds it for me, which is nice but not normal for him to do. I get another almost-smile as I walk in. Yes, he's nervous.

We hang up our coats in the hall closet. I head for the kitchen, and Sherlock follows. Now, _this_ will be interesting. As far as I'm aware, Sherlock doesn't cook. Mrs. Hudson swears up and down that she is not his housekeeper, but she isn't fooling anyone. John might cook some—but really, how can anyone cook in that flat with the way Sherlock keeps the kitchen? It was hard enough for me to bake a simple cake. I can't imagine preparing a full meal.

Sherlock goes to the fridge and opens the freezer door, extracting a frozen pizza. I laugh, and immediately a look of concern touches his face, briefly, before disappearing. "There are also frozen vegetables if you'd like some," he says.

I hold back my laugh this time. "Vegetables? With pizza?" I make a face. "No, this is just perfect. And you know what goes great with pizza?" I open the fridge door and pull out two dark bottles of beer. He almost smiles again.

We pop the pizza in the oven, and once it's ready we dig in. We haven't been talking much, which is actually very normal for dinners with Sherlock, and yet I get the sense that he's trying to come up with something to say. To help, I ask, "So what is John up to lately?"

"He's in New Zealand with—something or other."

"You don't know her name?"

"Who said it's a her?" His lips twitch upward, giving him away.

I laugh, and so does he. "How long is he gone?"

"I don't know."

"Didn't he tell you?"

"Oh, I'm sure he did."

But it wasn't important information, I think to myself, so he's forgotten it. Anyway, he could always ask John if he really needed to know, so why clutter his mind palace with it? I take another bite of pizza. "Any interesting cases?"

"They're all interesting; that's why I take them."

"You know what I mean."

"Well," he says, "_yes_, since you mention it. Last week, do you remember the explosions?"

"Yeah, I do," I say. He had been about to continue, but my tone stops him. I sound irritated. He raises an eyebrow. "The first one was on Baker St. I tried to call you to see if you were all right, but no, I had to wait to hear from Mycroft the next morning. That was really fun."

He opens his hands, frowning. "Obviously I was all right. Someone would have gotten in contact with you if I weren't. Haven't you heard—no news is good news?"

I roll my eyes, but say, "Continue."

He inclines his head a bit. "Thank you. As I was saying, the explosions weren't explosions, they were bombings, and there were supposed to be more of them, but I stopped them."

"By catching the person behind them all?"

"Well—sort of. He's still out there, but we had a heart-to-heart, you could say. Turns out he was only doing everything to get my attention."

"Wonderful, you have a fan."

"Evidently." I don't think he caught my sarcasm.

We spend much of the night discussing this Moriarty character. Well, Sherlock spends much of the night discussing him. I listen, mostly. The world's only consulting detective versus the world's only consulting criminal. You have to admit it's an intriguing idea. Being around Sherlock is certainly never boring.

Eventually, I point out the time. It's a quarter after ten. I'm very rarely out this late—I've never been one for partying, and I simply don't have a lot of friends to be going out with, anyway—and I begin to worry that Mycroft might notice that tonight is exceptional somehow. Sherlock seems to get my point. We call a taxicab to take me home. Again, the ride passes in silence.

When we get to Pall Mall, I linger in the backseat, turning to face Sherlock. "Thank you for this," I say, because I really don't know what else to say. "It was nice."

"It was very enjoyable."

I wait and see if he'll kiss me. He looks like he might want to. Maybe I even see him lean in a bit. Finally, he smiles. "Goodnight, Gwyn," he says.

I smile back, and leave. With that, our first date comes to a close.


	5. Lunch Break

**Author's Note: Just a quick little update :) More coming soon!**

* * *

Our first kiss comes along rather unexpectedly. It's a few weeks after our first date. We haven't had any other official dates, but we've been seeing each other on the semi-regular basis that we always have. I come over to Baker St. for lunch because I have a few hours in between classes. I stop and get sandwiches from the deli downstairs. John is just on his way out as I arrive, which I like. Don't get me wrong—John is fine and all, but it's nice to have Sherlock to myself.

"Does John know, then?" I ask as we begin to eat.

"Does John know I'm dating my sister?" Sherlock replies sarcastically, eyes widening. "No, I don't think we've had that conversation quite yet."

It isn't something we've really discussed before, whether or not we're going to tell anyone. We both seem to have agreed without even saying so that this relationship is something we want to try, but obviously we have to be discreet about it. Mycroft can't know; he would be furious. I imagine he'd think it would sully the Holmes family name if anyone ever found out, and maybe it would. We're not really brother and sister, though, so how bad can it be?

"We could double with John and—Sarah, is it? It could be fun."

"They're not a _thing_ anymore," Sherlock says, feigning disappointment.

"Oh, really? That's unfortunate."

"Not so much, she was incredibly dull."

"Everyone is incredibly dull to you."

"Well, you know me."

I chew my sandwich thoughtfully. "Am I dull?" I ask.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. He doesn't answer.

"Oh, come on," I say. "It's not that big a deal. I know I can be dull sometimes, there's no harm in admitting it."

He still doesn't budge.

"I do _plenty_ of dull things," I insist. "Yesterday I gossiped about Prince Harry with a girl in my Roman Literature class. We giggled. Tell me you wouldn't have died of boredom."

A smirk pulls at his lips. "Your words, not mine."

"Yeah, well." I smile. He smiles back. "So do you have a case?"

"If I had a case, I would be working."

"Right, of course." It's true; sometimes I go for weeks without hearing a word from him because he's, well, Sherlock. When he has a case, he obsesses. I let the silence sit for a minute until my mind settles on one particular thought. I clear my throat, and ask, "Have you heard anything more from Moriarty?"

Sherlock sighs loudly, tapping his fingers against the armrests of his chair rhythmically before jumping up and taking his violin in hand. "No, not yet," he says as he begins playing; he plays when he thinks, same as me, so clearly I've gotten his mind racing off again. "I imagine he's planning something impressive."

"Yeah, one can only hope," I say wryly, although I don't think Sherlock quite catches the sarcasm. I think he looks forward to his next little game with Moriarty, and that makes me uneasy. They're both geniuses in their own right, at least the way Sherlock describes him. Sherlock can't beat him forever.

I get up and toss the sandwich wrappers away, and while I'm doing that, the music stops. When I turn around, Sherlock is behind me, violin and bow at his side. We're very close now, and the distance is distracting. He raises an eyebrow, like he's waiting for me to say something, but I can't think of anything to say; all I can focus on is how _close_ he is.

Flustered, I stand there trying to form words until at last he leans in, with just a hint of a smirk. His lips brush softly against mine, lingering for barely a moment before he pulls away. His smirk is obvious now; perhaps he's amused at his ability to render me speechless.

"That was unexpected," I finally say, my brow furrowed.

"Good unexpected?"

After a few seconds, I nod, and he smiles radiantly at me before spinning on his heel and walking towards the windows, playing his violin once more.


	6. Interruptions

I turn on the shower, twisting the dial all the way to the H. I have half an hour until my first class. I strip down and jump under the lukewarm water. Within a minute it's scalding, and I twist the dial back for a more reasonable temperature. I'm just lathering up my hair when I hear a door bang shut.

Mycroft is already at work, and there's no way that sound could have come from one of the neighbors. "Hello?" I can't hear anything over the shower.

I go back to rinsing my hair, but I keep listening. Nothing. I'm almost ready to believe I had imagined it when the bathroom door opens.

I've always thought that if a psycho killer barged in while I was taking a shower I would surely scream, but I can't make a sound. My heart is pounding out of my chest, and I am convinced that I'm about to die a horrible death.

"Would you like to join me for lunch?"

I could strangle him. "Sherlock?" I'm nearly shouting.

"Why do you sound angry?"

"I'm in the _shower_. Get _out_."

"There's a curtain, I can't see you. Anyway, isn't this the sort of thing that people in relationships do?"

"I'm not sure what you're implying."

There's an awkward note to his voice when he replies, "Nudity."

I open my mouth to speak, and then close it, and then laugh. I can't help it. "No, no, no," I say, "you can't see me naked yet. I need to be in control of the lighting and preferably we'll both have had something to drink."

"You're not serious."

"Bathroom lighting is notoriously unforgiving."

"Do you want to get lunch?"

I twist the dial to the off position and stick my hand out of the curtain. Sherlock hands me my towel. Once I've dried off sufficiently, I wrap the towel around me and step out of the shower.

"Get out," I repeat. "I need to get dressed."

"Don't be silly."

I grab my undies and somehow wiggle them on under the towel. My attempt is successful so far. The bra part won't be quite as easy.

"Trying to figure out how you're going to do this?" Sherlock teases, seeing me eyeing the pink thing with a look of determination.

"Close your eyes," I demand, and turn around for good measure. The bra is on in seconds, and I deftly pull my navy cotton shirt and jeans on. "Unfortunately, I can't go to lunch, I have class," I say as I start brushing my hair.

"Skip it."

"I don't skip class, Sherlock."

"Then I'll come with."

I frown at him. "What?" he asks innocently.

"It's a discussion seminar, it's small, there are only ten of us."

"I can discuss."

"You can discuss the Flavian dynasty?"

"No, but I can discuss who is sleeping with whom."

I scoff. "I thought you hated trivial things like gossip."

"I'm _bored_," Sherlock says, and it almost sounds like a whine.

"Go play with John," I say, trying to hide my smile.

He waves my suggestion away. "He's visiting his sister. Let's go to lunch."

"I have _class_, Sherlock," I reply helplessly. "If you can wait an hour and a half, I'd love to eat then." Because I know the conversation can't go on forever, I try to move around him so I can gather the rest of my things, but he intercepts me.

"Don't go," he says. We're very close now. He holds my gaze as he takes one of my hands in his, tracing the lines of my palm with his thumb. He does one of his little smiles, and his face moves almost imperceptibly closer. For someone who claims to have never dated anyone before, he's got my attention. "I can think of several things you might enjoy more."

"Might?"

"Well, you know what happens when you assume."

He kisses me softly, like our first kiss, but there is an undercurrent of something more. Despite the things I've heard him say to Molly, or heard of him saying to Donovan, I know Sherlock is a gentleman at heart. On top of that, he's still relatively innocent, at least in the realm of romance. So it's me who deepens the kiss and pulls him closer. His hands, which started on either side of my face, slowly wander, first from my cheeks to my neck and then all the way down my spine.

I don't know when it happened, but my back is pressed into the wall. I let out a moan as his teeth graze my lower lip. I wind my fingers through his dark curls. His hands rest at my hips, and I can feel the hesitancy there, as if he wants to pull me even closer but isn't quite ready. When that thought fully registers, I start to move back. He stiffens slightly. "Have I done something?"

Our faces are still quite close. I don't want to push him. He's clearly interested in the physical aspect of our relationship, but I'm not sure if he's really ready for anything serious yet. "No, I just have class," I say.

I think maybe he understands what's going through my head. He nods, and gives me another little smile. He pulls away slightly, just enough to cup my face in his hands. He kisses me once more, on the forehead, like he's done for years ever since I was a little girl. "Meet me for lunch after?" he asks.

I smile. "Perfect."


	7. Finally

In a few weeks, Term 3 ends and summer is in full swing. Due to John's little blog, Sherlock is starting to grow in popularity, so I don't see him as much as I'd like. We still do get some time together, though. We carry on as usual, going to dinner, sneaking around John and Mycroft, stealing quick kisses in his flat or on Pall Mall. Our relationship doesn't progress very much, at least not in the physical realm. I don't want to push him. I've been quite careful about that.

One evening in the middle of July, we go out to dinner. While we're there, Sherlock asks if I would like to spend the night. There's an awkward moment when, after I accept, he tries to makes sure that I understand what spending the night will entail, and I quickly assure him that, yes, I do indeed know. And so, after dinner, we find ourselves back at his flat.

Sherlock holds the door for me. "John's away for the night?" I ask.

Sherlock nods. I think he's nervous. I walk up to him and take both of his hands, intertwining his fingers with mine. "I love you," I say, and he nods, because of course he knows. He's Sherlock. He smiles, and I understand that to mean that he feels the same way, but he can't say it, because again, he's Sherlock.

"We don't have to do this, you know," I say.

He smirks then. "Oh, we're doing this," he replies. He bends down and kisses me, taking my face in his hands. As the kiss deepens, his hands move to my back, and I turn my focus to his shirt. I unbutton halfway down, and then stop, and for a moment we're just kissing. I don't want to move too fast. I want him to be comfortable. However, he seems to be plenty comfortable. I finish unbuttoning his shirt, and once it's off he tugs on my dress and pulls it over my head.

His hands run down my sides and rest at my hips, and then he suddenly lifts me up. I have to admit, he's got good instincts. I wrap my legs around his waist, and soon we're in the bedroom. I expect us to go directly to the bed, but instead he sets me down on the floor. Maybe not the best instincts after all, but they're not bad. I undo his belt and pull it off, and in seconds his pants are on the ground, revealing a telltale hardness. Once our under-things are off, I wrap my hand around his cock and give it a tug. Sherlock moans into my mouth, and he bucks his hips forward.

Without breaking the kiss, I lead him to the bed. I briefly fret over what position he might prefer, but honestly I'm a bit too preoccupied to worry too much about that. I'm sure he'll find whatever we do rather enjoyable.

He sets me on my back, and situates himself over me. His lips move to my jaw line, and he nips the skin below my ear. I let out a moan and squirm under him. I pull his face back to mine, and then he thrusts into me. He goes slowly at first, biting back a moan of his own. I can sense a little hesitancy, but soon we find a rhythm. My hands move to his lower back to draw him closer. The feel of him is fantastic. He begins to thrust faster. I dig my nails into his back and try to hold back a scream as I give in to the waves of pleasure. He finishes shortly after, and we're left pressed up against each other, hot and breathing hard.

Once we've caught our breath, his eyes meet mine, and he smiles. I smile back. I'm still smiling when we drift off to sleep.


	8. Happy Birthday

On September 15, Mycroft and Sherlock take me out for my twenty-first birthday. We always go to dinner on our birthdays, or at least we try to. If Sherlock or Mycroft ever put up a fight, I can usually persuade them to give in. We hardly ever do anything together. Three birthdays, three times a year, is the least we can do.

Sherlock is late. At Mycroft's suggestion, we've gone ahead and ordered, and we've just gotten our drinks when I see Sherlock come in the restaurant's front door, followed closely by John. Sherlock appears to be waving John off, but John insists on escorting him all the way to the table.

"Hello, John," I say as Mycroft looks on with interest.

"Hello, Gwyn, and happy birthday—"

"Sherlock, what's happened to your face?" I can't help but interrupt; there's a cut and sizeable bruise just below Sherlock's left eye. When he doesn't immediately volunteer the information, I look at John expectantly.

"I punched him," John says.

"You _hit_—why?"

"He asked me to."

I frown and look back at Sherlock. He rolls his eyes and mutters something about _experiments_ and _science_. He and Mycroft exchange a meaningful glance, which irritates me because it means that they've got a case or something that they're not planning on sharing with me. "Well—would you like to join us, John?" I ask.

"No, thank you," he says quickly. "I just—wanted to make sure Sherlock got here in one piece. The, uh, _punch_ was a bit much, I think. Have a nice dinner."

With that, he ducks out of the restaurant. John's punch was such that he felt the need to walk Sherlock in here? Now that he mentions it, there is something off about Sherlock. He didn't seem to be balancing quite right when he walked in, and he's still acting a bit dazed. But I don't think that's all from a punch.

No matter. "Did you have a nice day, then?" I ask.

"Yes, do tell us how your day went," Mycroft says.

Sherlock clears his throat. "I worked on a case. It's come to a bit of a dead-end, unfortunately, but I'm—hopeful that it will all be dealt with shortly."

"Indeed," Mycroft says. His expression is a strange mixture of displeasure and amusement. I gather Sherlock's case has to do with Mycroft, which means it has something to do with the British government, which again confirms there is absolutely no chance either of them will tell me anything about it.

"I imagine you've had an enjoyable day," Sherlock says.

"Very enjoyable, yes," I reply with a smile. "You'll never guess what Mycroft bought me for breakfast."

"A cake?"

"Double chocolate, of course, it was delicious! Mycroft had some, too."

"So the diet's not going well, then?" Sherlock asks our brother.

"It's going _fine_," Mycroft says shortly.

"You had two pieces," I point out.

"If I recall correctly, so did you."

"Yeah, but it's my birthday." I take a sip of wine.

"And Gwyn is in fine physical condition," Sherlock says.

I almost spit out my wine, and I cough for a moment before I can get out, "Went down the wrong way." I might be imagining it, but Sherlock sounds as if he's fighting back a laugh. I replay what I said in my mind—_went down the wrong way_. Oh, God. I didn't mean that sexually, of course, but now all I'm thinking of is _going down_—but in any case, Mycroft doesn't seem fazed by Sherlock's comment, and the potential misinterpretation of my response hasn't even registered. Of course, it's something Sherlock might have said even if we weren't sleeping together. It's just the sort of thing Sherlock might choose to comment on.

Our food arrives, including Sherlock's, because we ordered for him before he arrived. A few minutes pass in silence as we eat, and then out of nowhere, Sherlock asks, "So Gwyn, are there any exciting men in your life that we should know about?"

Okay, he's clearly doing this on purpose. Why? Neither of us wants Mycroft to know. It would be inconvenient and uncomfortable. The first comment was one thing, but asking me if I'm seeing anyone is reckless. Sherlock has no way of knowing how I may have reacted. If he had startled me, Mycroft would have noticed.

I set down my fork as calmly as I can and look at Sherlock. "No, actually, there aren't. Why do you ask?"

He shrugs. "You seem _happier_ than usual. Wouldn't you agree, Mycroft?"

"I suppose," Mycroft replies evenly, "although not notably so. Don't insult me, brother; of course I would know if Gwyn was dating."

When Mycroft looks away to carve another piece off his steak, Sherlock and I glance at each other. He's trying to hide a smile. I roll my eyes.

"You're absolutely right," Sherlock says. "You _would_ know."

"Or maybe neither of you would know," I interject. "As much as I enjoy listening to you two discussing my love life—or lack thereof—let's not."

I somehow manage to get the conversation on another track. We finish dinner without anyone losing any limbs, so it's safe to call it a success. Sherlock and Mycroft actually seemed to enjoy one another when they were ganging up on me, although their usual dynamic returns back to normal the moment the topic changes. Mycroft pays the bill, and then excuses himself to use the restroom. I say we'll be waiting out front.

"Dessert?" Sherlock asks the moment we're outside.

"And ditch Mycroft?" I ask. He nods. "No, I'm good, thanks."

"Are you angry with me?"

"No, I just—you _do_ agree that Mycroft can't know, don't you?"

"Of course."

"Then what was—"

"I was just having _fun_, Gwyn." Before I can respond, he leans down and kisses me once. He straightens up and smiles. "Happy birthday."

Grudgingly, I return the smile. "Thank you."

Mycroft emerges a minute later, and we go our separate ways.


	9. Merry Christmas

**Author's Note:** Thank you for reading this far! This chapter is a bit different because it involves a scene directly from the show, which I try not to do very often (naturally I have my reasons). There are some fun (well, _fun_ for me to write, anyway) chapters coming up! As always, reviews are appreciated!

* * *

"Wish him a merry Christmas for me, will you?" Mycroft calls from the living room. I assume he heard me bundling up in the foyer.

I poke my head into the other room. Mycroft is sitting in front of the fireplace reading a book. As usual, we're at the Manor for the holiday season. School is on break and even Mycroft's work experiences a bit of a lull around this time, so there's really no reason for us to be in the city, and anyway, the Manor isn't too far out of London. Obviously Sherlock has no interest in joining us, but that's just fine.

"Are you sure you don't want to come along?" I ask. I already know his answer.

Mycroft smiles politely, indulgently. "No, Gwyn, thank you," he says. "But I do wish you have a lovely time."

I wish him the same, and then go outside to get into the taxicab I've called. Soon enough, the car pulls up to Baker St. The door is unlocked, so I go on up. I can hear Sherlock playing his violin, along with the sounds of pleasant chatter and general holiday-ness. John and John's girlfriend and Mrs. Hudson are seated in the two armchairs, and Lestrade is standing in the doorway to the kitchen.

"Oh, it's wonderful to see you, Gwyn," Mrs. Hudson says, as cheerful as ever.

"It's lovely to see you, as well, Mrs. Hudson," I say with a smile.

"Gwyn, this is Jeanette," John says, gesturing between the two of us.

I shake Jeanette's hand, and she asks, "Sherlock's sister, right?"

"That's right," I say. I cast around in my head for anything Sherlock might have mentioned about her, but nothing is coming to mind. So instead of trying to make small talk with her, I turn to Lestrade. "How is Scotland Yard, Greg?"

He smiles and lifts his drink to me a bit, almost like a toast. "Interesting, as always. There's always something to keep me on my toes."

Sherlock finishes his song with a flourish, and we all applaud. Only now does he come over to greet me, giving me a perfectly familial side hug and kissing the top of my head. "You look very festive," he says.

I tried to find a good balance between casual party wear and still looking nice, so I'm wearing my favorite jeans and a green cardigan. I threw on a red necklace at the last minute. I even have matching red lipstick. I definitely _do_ look festive.

"Thank you," I say with a smile.

"Shall we exchange gifts, then?" Sherlock asks, addressing the whole room. Everyone looks rather surprised, because it's still fairly early on in the evening, but they all sort of nod in agreement. I get the distinct impression that Sherlock is impatient to give his gifts, and I can't help but be excited at that.

We all pull up chairs so we're sitting in a circle and, one by one, we each hand out our gifts. Despite his eagerness to start this whole thing, Sherlock insists on going last—mostly likely because, I assume, he wants to be the grand finale.

I receive a book on the emperor Caligula from John, which is nice because he obviously remembered that I'm studying the Classics, a pretty scarf from Mrs. Hudson, and a holiday-themed mug from Lestrade. I give John a new jumper, Mrs. Hudson a fancy brooch, and as fate would have it, I give Lestrade a mug very similar to the one he gives me. I give Sherlock an old pipe that I found after scouring countless websites and secondhand shops around the city. Along with it, he receives a dozen different types of tobacco—his favorites, according to his website.

As I expect, Sherlock saves my gift for the very last. It's a necklace, very simple, with a gold chain. It has one small diamond hanging from it, encased in gold. It really is very beautiful, and perfect for me. "I love it," I say, maybe a bit too seriously.

"I thought you would like it."

"Thank you so much." He bends down and I hug him, and then he helps me take off my other necklace and put the new one on.

After the gift-giving ends and conversation starts back up, Sherlock goes back to playing the violin. As always, everything he plays sounds fantastic. I get the vague impression that he's getting bored with the party atmosphere; all he was really interested in was the gift portion, and now that that's over, he's checked out mentally.

John and Jeanette attempt to start up a conversation with him after his third song, but he manages to dodge that by unintentionally insulting Jeanette's being a teacher. Then Molly Hooper arrives, and he immediately sits at his computer, presumably occupying himself before she can get to him.

I know Molly fancies Sherlock; it's painfully obvious. It doesn't bother me much, simply because I know how Sherlock feels. Molly's sweet, anyway, and she looks rather pretty tonight. She's definitely dressed to impress. After some awkward small talk, during which Sherlock puts in his rude two cents, it's clear Sherlock has taken note of her appearance as well.

He's in full deduction mode. He says she has a new boyfriend, based on her bag of gifts. "Miss Hooper has _love_ on her mind," he continues. "The fact that she's serious about him is clear from the fact that she's giving him a gift at all, that would suggest hopes of a long-term relationship. And the fact that she's seeing him tonight is obvious from her makeup and what she's wearing. Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts—"

He trails off as he looks at the gift, which he now has in hand. Evidently, the new boyfriend Sherlock was speaking of is himself. I suspected as much. Poor Molly. I would probably feel even sorrier for her if I wasn't preoccupied by what Sherlock had said about compensating for the size of her breasts; I must be at least a cup size smaller than her.

I self-consciously cross my arms in front of my chest, and Sherlock looks over at the movement. His eyes flick down to my arms and back up to my eyes, and he gives me a look. He almost appears _guilty_, if I'm not mistaken. It's not an expression I'm accustomed to seeing on his face.

Meanwhile, Molly says, "You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always. _Always_."

Sherlock sighs a little and fidgets for a moment before he says, "I am sorry. Forgive me." He leans forward and kisses Molly on the cheek. "Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper."

It's unexpected, and no one seems to know what to say. I'm suddenly fighting the urge to hide a smile. I think it was very sweet of him. John looks as if Sherlock has just announced he's going to join the West End revival of _Mary Poppins_. Lestrade looks terribly confused. Mrs. Hudson seems to holding back a smile as well. Molly has been rendered completely speechless.

Then there's a very strange sound—is that what I think it was? Molly is mortified, shaken out of silence. "No, that wasn't—I didn't—"

Sherlock holds up a hand to stop her. "It was me."

"Was it really?" Lestrade interjects.

"My phone," Sherlock clarifies. He pulls it out of his jacket pocket and reads the text. He then goes to the mantle to pick up something. Whatever he finds is meaningful, and he immediately leaves the room.

Is it something to do with a case? I'm not sure. John and I briefly make eye contact before he gets up and follows Sherlock. John returns barely a minute later. Sherlock follows shortly after, and starts for the door at once.

"Where are you going?" I can't help but ask.

He turns just long enough for me to see the worry in his eyes. Then he's finished adjusting his scarf and coat, and he's out the door. I look to John for an explanation, but he looks as confused as I feel, if not also more than a little concerned. That doesn't help.

I try to stick around and socialize, but as the minutes wear on and Sherlock doesn't return, it gets to be too much. I get a taxicab back to the Manor. One of Mycroft's government cars is pulling away just as I arrive. "Where have you been?" I ask my brother the moment I'm out of the cab. His being gone while Sherlock has disappeared can't be a coincidence.

"St. Bart's. For work."

"Was he there?"

Mycroft knows I'm talking about Sherlock. He doesn't answer at once, instead letting out a long sigh. "How did he seem when he left the flat?" he asks instead.

I don't like what his question implies—that how he seemed then is important because it might be helpful in understanding how he feels now. Sherlock seemed worried, so obviously something bad happened, so how does that mean he actually feels? Mycroft takes my silence as confirmation of the worst.

"John will watch him," he says, as if that's supposed to comfort me.

It doesn't. If Mycroft has asked John to keep an eye on Sherlock, it means he's afraid Sherlock might relapse, which means something really awful must have happened to make Sherlock feel this way. I want to go back to his flat and be with him. I know he has John, but still. I don't want him to be alone tonight.

I also don't want to make Mycroft suspicious, so I go inside with him. Mycroft thinks John can handle whatever is wrong. If he didn't, Mycroft would be with Sherlock right now, despite the fact that being with Mycroft is probably the last thing Sherlock would want right now. No matter how much Mycroft tries to pretend he doesn't care, he does. He can't help but care, same as me.


	10. Just Fine

**Author's Note:** I already have the next chapter written, so that might get posted later tonight. In the meantime, enjoy!

* * *

I wake up early the next morning, before Mycroft has gone to work. He's still in the kitchen, the morning's paper in hand, so I pour myself a bowl of cereal and join him. "Have you heard anything from John?" I ask.

He sort of cocks his head to the side, frowning a bit. His primary interest is clearly in the paper, and he distractedly replies, "No, I can't say that I have."

"Well, maybe I could stop by there today, see how he is."

"Yes, that would be good."

I sigh. He doesn't hear it, or pretends not to. I try to focus on breakfast, but finally I can't help it. "Mycroft, what happened last night?"

Now he's the one who sighs. "Gwyn—"

"If something is wrong with Sherlock, I want to know."

He folds up the paper and sets it aside. "It was in regard to a case I asked him to help me with," he says. "A woman died. He identified the body at St. Barts."

"Oh." I don't know what else to say. That isn't what I expected. Why would Sherlock be so upset about someone from one of his cases? I mean, most people might be a little upset, because death is always sad, but I imagine Sherlock would be more bothered by the abrupt end to a case before he could solve it.

Mycroft senses my confusion. "I suspect they may have been involved."

It takes a moment for those words to sink in. "As in—sexually?"

"I was trying to be delicate, but yes, _sexually_," he says.

"Um, that's—that's ridiculous, that can't be right," I say, because I can't help it. Sherlock is certainly charming when he wants to be, but he isn't the type to sleep with a client or, for that matter, be unfaithful.

Of course, the moment I've said it, I realize I shouldn't have. Mycroft frowns at me. He doesn't look suspicious, exactly, but my response probably wasn't any of the possible responses he had predicted. After a moment, he nods a little, and chuckles. "Yes, I suppose the thought of Sherlock being romantically involved with anyone is a bit ridiculous, isn't it?" He laughs again.

I smile and nod, going along with it.

"Yes," he continues, "so what if he was only able to properly identify her by her body—that doesn't mean they were involved. Given her chosen occupation, I think it much makes sense. I thank you, Gwyn; sometimes one must speak a thought aloud to hear just how silly it really is."

With that, he gets up and says good-bye, and leaves for work, leaving me rather dumbfounded. I'm not sure if he was actually convinced or simply humoring me, but he certainly caught my attention with the _identified by her body_ bit. My first impulse is to ask Sherlock about it. However, he's upset. Now isn't a good time.

I do want to see him, though. I get dressed and head over to Baker St. John doesn't seem too surprised to see me. Sherlock is still in bed when I get there. I open his door to peek my head in. "Gwyn, there's really no point in you being here."

I won't pretend that didn't hurt. He's facing the wall, but I know he knew it was me because John would've already stopped in this morning. I go ahead and sit on the edge of his bed. He's staring at the wall, and I could swear he's fighting the urge to roll his eyes. "I'm here, so I might as well stay for a bit," I say.

"I would prefer to be alone."

Now I fight the urge to roll my eyes, but I try to be understanding. I return to the living room where John is working on his laptop. "Anything?" he asks as I sit down in Sherlock's usual armchair.

"No," I say. After a moment, I ask, "What was her name?"

"Irene Adler."

Oh, that's what Mycroft meant about her occupation. I've heard about her. People have gossiped about her at school. She's been causing quite a few scandals recently. "So was that your case? Fixing a scandal she had caused?"

It takes John a moment to catch up to the jump in logic I've made, but then he nods. "Yeah, exactly. I mean, I can't tell you the specifics, but—"

"Right, of course," I say, and smile. From the look on John's face, he very clearly wants to tell me the specifics. I'm sure they're rather juicy.

We lapse into silence for a while. I pick a book from Sherlock's bookshelves, some of Tennyson's poems, and settle in to read. Twenty or so minutes pass, and then out of nowhere John asks, "Has Sherlock ever dated anyone?"

No need to freak out, I tell myself. John didn't ask if Sherlock was currently dating anyone, just if he had ever done so. Answering is tricky, though. Obviously Sherlock has dated—he's dating me—but before me, no, I don't think he's ever dated. So to John's knowledge, the best answer would be no. But that isn't the honest answer. "It's certainly possible," I finally say.

John frowns. "So what you mean is, you don't know."

I sort of shrug helplessly, but he's insistent. "You _must_ have some idea, you're his sister. The two of you are close. Hasn't he ever mentioned anyone?"

"Well, think of it this way," I say. "Sherlock only says what's relevant to the immediate conversation. If no one directly asked him about a girlfriend, then why would he feel the need to offer up the information?"

"You've never asked, then. Aren't you curious?"

"It's his life, John," I say, trying not to sound defensive.

"All right, all right," John replies, putting his hands up in surrender. Obviously I didn't do a very good job at not sounding defensive. He returns to whatever he was doing on his laptop.

After a few minutes, I get up and go back to Sherlock's room. I shut the door behind me. Sherlock twists in bed to see who it is, sighs dramatically, and turns back to face the wall. I go over to his side of the bed and kneel on the floor so we're eye to eye. Because I think it might amuse him, I say, "You know, John was asking some interesting questions about you." He raises an eyebrow; I've piqued his interest. "About whether or not you've dated anyone."

There's a hint of a smirk on his face. "And what did you say?"

"That it was entirely possible. Do you think he has any idea?"

"Not in the slightest. Mycroft?"

"Sometimes I wonder, but no, I don't think so."

"I suppose it would take a master detective to figure it out."

I smile. "Oh, really? Like the world's only consulting detective, perhaps?"

"Perhaps," he agrees. "Fortunately, I have a conflict of interest."

I laugh. Even if he's not perfectly all right now, I can see he's going to be just fine. That's a comfort. "Yes, very fortunate," I say. "Anyway, I'll give you some space. If you need anything, let me know. I love you." I kiss him on the cheek and go.


	11. No More Secrets

My phone vibrates as I leave Greek Art. _Dinner? SH_

I smile to myself, and then smile even more when I realize I'm smiling. I say yes, and that I'll be by soon. It's not too far a walk from campus to Baker Street. I return my phone to my coat pocket, but I'm still smiling stupidly when I walk straight into someone, dropping all of my books in the process. This is what I get for not loading up my bag at the end of class.

"Sorry," I say, although I know I don't sound sorry. No, I wasn't paying as much attention as I should have been, but _he_ came out of nowhere. I hadn't even seen him until I was walking into him.

He's about my height, maybe half an inch taller, and he's wearing a silly cap. He fumbles for my books awkwardly, handing them back once he's collected them. I see his gaze go to the top book, my planner, with my name on it.

"Gwyn," he muses, "that's a pretty name."

His voice is soft and lilting; he's Irish.

"Thank you," I say, beginning to turn away.

"Jim." It's meant as an introduction. In the back of my mind, I feel uneasy. I have a vague sense that I'm missing something important.

I keep walking, until he says, "Say hello to Sherlock for me."

I stop. Of course. I should have been expecting this. But I'm not ready. I remind myself that we're in the middle of campus, so it's not like he can do anything. That doesn't help much. "Jim Moriarty," I say, as casually as I can manage.

"Has Sherlock told you about me? I'm flattered."

He really does sound flattered. He also sounds much closer. I face him again. "What do you want?" I ask, trying to keep my face as expressionless as possible.

"I just wanted to meet the third Holmes," he replies, his voice soft again, too soft, "and to congratulate you. I imagine you and Sherlock are very happy together."

I don't respond. He says, "I'm surprised it took you two as long as it did, really. I like to think you have me to thank. It wasn't until after our little meeting that he decided to do anything. I did my research, you see. Sherlock pretends he doesn't love anyone, but he does love a few. It's his biggest weakness."

When I still don't say anything, he continues, "I gave you a present. I hope you don't mind, but I shared it with a few others, as well."

He gave me—_oh_. Yes, in my Roman Mythology textbook, stuffed in between two pages that depict Jupiter and Juno together. It's an envelope. Inside are photos. They are all of Sherlock and me, together. One is of us out to dinner. One is of us walking through St. James Square. They're fairly innocent, so I'm not sure what the point of this all is—except that, obviously, we're being watched.

"Yes, and?" I ask once I've looked through them all. "What is this supposed to be, blackmail? We look like a brother and sister spending time together."

Moriarty frowns at me, and then suddenly snatches the photos out of my hands. He flips through them all, as if looking for something, before he stops just as abruptly as he had begun. He laughs. "Oh, right, how silly of me," he says, in a way that suggests it wasn't silly of him at all, and he was waiting for just the right moment for the reveal, for the ultimate shock factor. He reaches inside his coat pocket to hand me one last photo.

It's Sherlock and me on my birthday, outside the restaurant after our dinner with Mycroft. Moriarty was waiting for us to slip up. I'm almost impressed that he managed to catch the kiss on camera, because as I remember it really wasn't that big of a kiss at all, just a quick good-bye that neither of us thought much of. It must be meant as blackmail, I think, but why would Moriarty bother? Unless all he wants is to bring the Holmes family into shame, which is perfectly valid.

"Is that it, then?" I ask. "Would you like me to show Sherlock?"

"Oh, I doubt you'll need to, but feel free if you'd like," he says. He tips his cap at me. "It's been a pleasure."

And then he is gone. Even though it's less than a mile to 221B, I hail a taxicab. I don't know what to think. My mind is racing. Moriarty is watching me, and Sherlock, and presumably Mycroft, as well. We already knew that, didn't we? He knows about Sherlock and me, which makes him the only person aside from us. He said he shared the photos with _a few others_. Who are the others? Who would care? John? Mycroft?

Mycroft would be furious, I think to myself. My phone vibrates.

_Come home now. M_

Shit. We've reached Baker Street. I pay the driver and fly to the door, running up the stairs once I've been buzzed in. I know Sherlock knows something's wrong, whether because of how hard I hit the buzzer or how quickly I climbed the stairs, and sure enough, he's standing in the doorway waiting for me.

"I met Moriarty," I say breathlessly, "and Mycroft knows."

"More," he requests—demands, really.

"What does Mycroft know?" John asks from his armchair.

I sit in the other chair. "I ran into Moriarty on campus, literally, he walked right into me and knocked my books over. He gave me this—" I hand Sherlock the envelope, "—and said he's shared it with someone else. Mycroft texted, he wants me home immediately. I don't know what else that could be about."

John had jumped to his feet, looking over Sherlock's shoulder as I was speaking. It's quite obvious when he's seen the photo in question. He frowns, yanks it out of Sherlock's hands, and stares at it intently for about ten seconds. He doesn't seem to know what to think of it.

"You—this—and _you_—but—"

"If it helps, we're not actually related," I offer.

"What—"

"I'm adopted. That might be relevant."

"But why—"

"Because it never came up in conversation," Sherlock says innocently, "and why stress you needlessly? Obviously we knew you would react this way."

John furrows his brow, looks at me, looks at Sherlock, back at me, shudders a bit, and then sits back down. He looks distinctly uncomfortable. It's actually rather entertaining. He taps his armrests rhythmically for several seconds, and then rocks forward back into a standing position.

"Well, I suppose I should say congratulations."

I make a face. "No, don't say that." That's what Moriarty did.

My phone vibrates again, and this time it doesn't stop. It's a call, not a text. I look at the screen. _Mycroft_, it announces. Not good.

"You answer," I say, holding it out to Sherlock.

"I have no interest in listening to our brother make a fool of himself," he says, pushing the phone back at me.

"I am _not_ answering this."

John snatches it out of my hand. "Fine, then. Hello?" he answers. "Yes, they're right here. Oh, you have? Right, well, I have nothing better to do." He hands me back my phone and grabs his and Sherlock's coats, moving towards the door. "Come on, he's sent a driver to get us, it should be arriving."

Sherlock puts on his coat slowly, a smirk playing on his lips. I roll my eyes. I can't believe he's enjoying this. All right, maybe I can believe it, but I for one am certainly not amused. "After you," he gestures out the door.

The drive is easily the most awkward nine and a half minutes of my life, although I'm sure the conversation with Mycroft will be even more so. John doesn't say a word, but judging from the tension in the back seat, he has many burning questions. Sherlock keeps on smirking the whole way over, which infuriates me, but I'm really too nervous to stay mad at him. When we finally reach Pall Mall, the butterflies are so bad they're actually giving me a stomachache. We scoot out of the car and it drives off. John is the one who opens the door.

Mycroft is the living room. John settles down next to our brother, and Sherlock and I take the sofa opposite. We sit in silence, Sherlock staring somewhere to the left of Mycroft's head, John inspecting a speck of dust floating in the air. I'm looking directly at Mycroft, because I can't read him. He looks relaxed, leaning back into the cushions with one leg crossed over the other. His head is cocked to the side slightly, and he's taking in the two of us before him, maybe for the first time seeing us differently, his brother and sister and yet not quite brother and sister anymore.

I feel awkward. I can't stand the silence. "How was work?" I ask.

His eyes focus on me completely for the first time, and he looks intrigued. I wonder if he thinks there's something important about how I was the first to speak, or how I'm obviously uncomfortable. Regardless, he indulges me, "It was just fine. No new wars, so I suppose you can call that a success."

"That's nice."

"How were your classes?"

"Very good. The Greeks, they don't change much." He laughs at that. "Of course," I continue, slightly encouraged by the smile on his face, "my day hasn't stayed good. You can imagine my surprise when I met Moriarty."

He nods, and the smile fades. "Yes, thank you for bringing that up, Gwyn," he says, and takes an envelope identical to the one given to me earlier and places it on the table between us. "Obviously I am aware of your little secret."

When he says _your_ now, it is plural. "I understand this is a delicate subject," he goes on, and out of the corner of my eye I see Sherlock's gaze shift to our brother. "I trust the two of you appreciate that this is not a conversation I would like to be having with my surviving family. However, unpleasant as it is, I really must know the nature of this relationship."

I think I would have preferred a lecture. I do not want to be having this conversation. I hear Sherlock say tiredly, "It's exactly as you think, Mycroft."

More silence follows. This can't actually be happening. We're not here, Mycroft doesn't know, he will _never_ know anything, and he most certainly does not know the exact nature of my relationship with Sherlock.

"So you _would_ know, then," Mycroft finally says.

"I told you, sex doesn't alarm me."

"When did you have _this_ conversation?" I interject.

"In Buckingham Palace," John says.

"I—" Words fail me. Then: "Why wasn't I invited?"

And for a moment, I catch one of those rare smiles of Sherlock's, a smile that lights up his face and reaches his eyes, and he laughs, and I can't help but smile, too. And Mycroft and John see us smiling, as fleeting as it is, because these kind of genuine smiles never last for long. I can see that John understands, or at least he's beginning to. If he's been completely lost up until this moment, it's starting to make some sense. Mycroft's expression is unreadable.

"How long?" he asks.

"I'll have a go." John leans forward, brow furrowed once more. "It had to have started before Buckingham Palace, obviously, so that's September, it's January now, so at least four months. But you—" He's pointing at Sherlock. He looks so pleased with himself, like he's got it all figured out, "—you seemed _happier_ before then, and what's more, you were leaving me alone, I remember because I actually did have a chance to date this past summer. So I'll say July, August?"

"Not bad," Sherlock says, although his tone immediately tells John that of course he's wrong, "except you're off by two months. May."

Mycroft rolls his eyes. "Nine months?"

"Are you impressed or angry?" I ask.

"Oh, he has plenty of room to be both," Sherlock says with a smirk. "If I'm not mistaken, brother, you couldn't care less whether or not Gwyn and I are involved. You're just worried about _propriety_ and the Holmes family name, and you very much disliked receiving those photos this afternoon."

"I am not _just_ worried about our reputation, I am concerned for our family," Mycroft replies. "This can't end well, you both must already know that."

He waits for us to say something, but when we remain silent, he continues, "You can never be open about your feelings for one another because, yes, the family name would suffer, and that is something I will not tolerate. Like it or not, I am the head of this family, and you two will respect that." He lets that sink in, and then continues, "Furthermore, I don't like this because I am not sure which of you will hurt the other more."

I don't think either of us were expecting that last bit. He doesn't know which of us will hurt the other more. He's implying that we would both be hurt if, or as Mycroft believes, _when_ our relationship ends. My first instinct is that I would be hurt more, because Sherlock is Sherlock. Both of my brothers seem convinced that caring is not an advantage, and as such try their best not to care about anything. Of course, they don't succeed. And Sherlock does feel things very deeply.

I think everyone's first instinct was Sherlock, but as the silence wears on, I get the distinct impression that they are all beginning to think it might be me. I don't understand why. Frustrated, I ask, "How am I going to hurt Sherlock?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Sherlock shift slightly. When I look at him, I know that he at least has one idea of how I might go about hurting him. Mycroft certainly has several ideas. Even John appears to be on their side.

"Gwyn, you're not like us," Mycroft says, gently, which doesn't help at all because he never speaks gently and when he does, whatever he's saying is the last thing I want to hear. "Sherlock and I are the type to be alone, permanently alone. Our work is enough for us."

I think I see where he is going with this. He continues, and his voice becomes even gentler, "You'll want to be a mother, Gwyn. You'll want a family and a husband and a life that is incompatible with people like us. We won't change, but you will. You'll grow beyond us. You may not feel this way now, but in time, you will."

I look away. I try to imagine it, this future life that Mycroft is sure I am going to have. I picture a relationship I don't have to hide, and a wedding, maybe even with Mycroft giving me away. I picture a child, with soft curls and rosy cheeks. I picture a home echoing with laughter and music and radiating love. I want this life; I know I want it, because my heart is aching for it even now. But I also want Sherlock, and Mycroft is right, I can't have both. I'm going to lose him.

Moriarty's words come to mind. _Sherlock pretends he doesn't love anyone, but he does love a few. It's his biggest weakness._ Yes, Sherlock feels very deeply. I'm not just going to lose him. I'm going to hurt him. And that's worse.

"Are you done?" I ask, forcing all emotion out of my voice. After a moment, Mycroft nods. I stand up. "If you'll excuse me." I go to my room. I need time to think.


End file.
